


(in)human

by fall_into_life



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Marvel Ultimates
Genre: F/F, Gen, Hydra, Strategic Scientific Reserve, The Red Room, Unreliable Narrator, all aboard the trauma train, meanwhile in Canada
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-04 20:06:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5346917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fall_into_life/pseuds/fall_into_life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Howard holds up a vial of shining blue liquid, and Peggy very nearly drops the papers in shock.</i>
</p><p>  <i>"[Erskine] kept one hidden." Howard hesitates. His eyes flick between the vial and Peggy. "He wanted you to have it."</i> </p><p>or: </p><p>the one where howard talks peggy into becoming a super soldier, mutants exist, and things get messy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crescendo I

**Author's Note:**

> Characters are tagged as they enter. Triggers are noted in the chapter they occur in. There are no warnings for death. Pairings are not tagged, for both clarity and conservation of tagging space. Everyone shows up at some point.
> 
> Enjoy the ride.

NEW YORK CITY  
22 JUNE, 1944

Agent Margaret "Peggy" Carter stands among the wreckage. There's broken glass and splintered wood, but also the last gasp of a dream. This was supposed to be the birthplace of an army. Instead, it will be just another footnote in the annals of history.

"Pegs, I've found something." Howard Stark's voice from behind her, and when she turns to look at him, he gestures her inside the building.

She follows him down, past the lab to where Erskine kept his research stored. They're alone here, the scientists and military personnel dissipated in the wake of their loss. Tomorrow, SSR technicians will come to salvage what they can, but right now it's just Peggy and Howard.

"This ain't my field, but I was hoping there'd be enough for me to go on, maybe find somebody who could work it out," Howard tells her, picking up a sheaf of notes. "And I found... well. Read for yourself."

Peggy takes the papers from him, frowning down at them. There's a lot there she flat-out doesn't understand, but luckily there's a military-style summary at the end, clearly written for people like her who aren't experts in experimental medicine.

"Steve wasn't the first," Peggy whispers, swallowing. "This man--"

"Johann Schmidt," Howard breaks in, his voice cracking. "Defected to Germany right after they used the first serum on him."

"He's... monstrous," Peggy says, leafing through the pictures.

"The serum's supposed to have physical changes, but they fixed that part by the time Steve came around," Howard says, and she's not sure why he says it like he's reassuring her; she's seen Steve and knows he looks fine, "which is good, because there's one more dose."

Howard holds up a vial of shining blue liquid, and Peggy very nearly drops the papers in shock.

"He--"

"He kept one hidden." Howard hesitates. His eyes flick between the vial and Peggy. "He wanted you to have it."

Peggy can't even ask if he's joking, because he must be. Despite the seriousness in his eyes, despite the fact that he's never joked at a time where jokes could put someone in danger, he must be joking now.

"His personal notes say that he requested you be the second one to take the serum. After they were sure it worked." Howard reaches for a different set of papers, and they trade. "He got denied, but the SSR left it open so you might have been able to be further down the line."

And there it is, in Erskine's craggled handwriting: his request, the denial, his adamant insistence that they need good people to go through the procedure. His statement that she's one of the best he knows.

"We could do it," Howard says, and when she looks up his eyes are intense with the kind of conviction she knows all too well. "Everything's still set up, nobody's going to take the place down until tomorrow--"

"Even if I wanted to do this," Peggy interrupts, placing the notes back down on a table, "which I most certainly do not, but _even if_ , Steve emerged two hundred pounds heavier and a foot taller. That isn't something you can cover up with a good jacket!"

He doesn't smile, and that's how she knows he's deadly serious. Also, barking mad, but she already knew that.

"Schmidt didn't get any bigger," Howard argues, "and he only turned colors 'cause they didn't have it fixed yet."

"And what do I do if it does? What do you think they'll do to a woman, an _English woman_ who stole a formula meant to make American super soldiers?" Peggy demands, because the SSR may be open-minded enough to take her on in light of her skill set, but it's American men in charge of this project, and American men who stare down their noses at her at every opportunity.

"I figured you'd be the last dame to deny a guy his dying wishes," Howard says.

"Howard," Peggy shakes her head, eyes on the vial in his hand, "it doesn't matter if Erskine wanted me to have it. They could recreate the serum with this!"

"Maybe," Howard says, "but should they?"

Peggy's eyes shoot up to Howard's. "I don't follow."

"Look, Pegs, I've read about the last guy they used this on. Red Skull, they call him now." Howard rolls the vial in his hand. "He was a bad guy, and now he's one of the worst. When Erskine developed this? They didn't know what a shithead he was. All we need is one soldier who's not what he seems like, and bam, another Red Skull."

Peggy doesn't respond. He's going to get them both killed, because, god help her, she's starting to agree with him.

"We lucked out with Steve, but if we make more, what happens to them after the war? Steve'll probably go back to drawing comic books or whatever he did, but other guys?" Howard shakes his head, slow and certain. "People with power end up using that power."

"You don't," Peggy points out.

"I do," Howard smiles, a bitter and terrible smile with more self-awareness in it than Peggy thought him capable of. "I just don't kill people with it."

There's a silence between them, then. Peggy doesn't want to admit he's right, wants to believe that they'll get more men like Steve, but she knows she's wrong. There aren't other men like Steve. She's met good men in her life, but none like him.

"That's a lot of responsibility to put on me," she murmurs, breathing in slowly through her nose.

"You can take it," Howard says, painfully sincere. "Or... we can throw the thing down the drain, and pretend we never found it. But you can do this, Pegs."

It's the faith in his eyes that decides her, that makes her say yes.

[*]

NEW YORK CITY  
22 JUNE, 1944

It's pain. Horrendous, ludicrous amounts of pain, agony like she didn't know existed. She understands why Steve screamed - it must have been worse for him, as she's fairly certain her spine isn't growing as his was - but Peggy Carter has torture training where Steve Rogers didn't, and she keeps quiet enough that they don't attract attention from off the street.

When she emerges, unsteady and shaking, Howard catches her, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders without a trace of his usual lechery.

"Woah," he whispers, his voice rich with layers she couldn't hear before, "hate to break it to you, Pegs, but you got buff all of a sudden. You had some strength to you before, but now your muscles got muscles. And uh," he clears his throat, "abs. Definitely abs."

Peggy snorts, reaching for her shirt as the shock of pain and transformation wears away. "Of course you notice my abdominal muscles when--"

Well. How about that. There's more softness to her than Steve has, but even _she's_ distracted by the cut of muscle in her abdomen.

"I take it back," she says faintly, "and spare you the slap you were about to get."

"Thanks," Howard says, rolling his eyes. "So, how do you feel?"

Peggy inhales, buttoning her shirt. The room around her seems hyper-saturated, as if everything she'd seen before had been on a film, and she's only now seeing it in life. She can hear the whir of electricity in the industrial lighting above them, smell Howard's cologne and something animal - fear? does fear truly have a scent? - beneath that. It would be enough to drive anyone to distraction, and she wonders not for the first time how Steve got anything done when he first got out, let alone chased a car down the chaotic streets of New York.

"Wonderful," she declares, turning her head to soak in her first new view of Howard, "absolutely wonderful."

[*]

TOPEKA, KANSAS  
1 JULY 1944

"You seem taller," Steve says, squinting.

Peggy scoffs, pretending as though her heart isn't in her throat. "Don't be ridiculous."

He's beautiful to her new eyes. So much is, but he's so much more than that, so much brighter. She can see highlights in his hair that she couldn't before, subtleties to the blue of his eyes that she didn't know existed. His body language is so open to her: he's confused but not suspicious, still trusts her, still... still wants her.

"Mm," Steve continues squinting, and Peggy damns him for being observant at all the wrong times. "New shoes, maybe?"

She doesn't answer, though perfectly good deflections and half-truths bubble to the surface. She's lying to a lot of people now, but not Steve. Never Steve, if she can help it.

"You were meant for something more, you know," she tells him instead. It's a deflection but certainly not a lie; she would think it of him no matter what, but with the serum buzzing in her body, she knows it as a bone-deep truth.

He hangs his head, but she can read his agreement in the set of his shoulders, the tension around his eyes. With other people, having this serum-enhanced insight almost feels like cheating, but she knew these things of him before.

It burns at her that they can't discuss this, but while she trusts his heart, she doesn't know how well he guards his tongue. He hasn't said anything about himself to any of the USO girls, as best she knows, but that's not proof enough. There's no one she'd trust more at her back (except perhaps Howard, if for no other reason than she knows him better), but she already knows he can be careless with his words sometimes, and this is both her life and career on the line.

She just hopes he forgives her for it later.

[*]

THE WESTERN FRONT  
2 NOVEMBER 1944

"How come I never see you with a rifle, Peggy?" Steve asks, genuinely curious. "You're a crack shot."

Peggy chuckles. "Rifles are so crude, messy. They get the job done for some, but I prefer precision. What is it your Marines say?"

Steve shakes his head, smiling. They say it together:

"One shot, one kill."

They laugh together, wrapped up free and happy in the moment.

[*]

LOCATION: UNKNOWN  
18 NOVEMBER, 1944

There are voices above and around him, but Bucky can't hear the words, just static. Everything hurts, but beyond that, he can barely think. There's some kinda drugs in him, he knows, but they don't feel like pain drugs. Not all, at least.

He recites his name, rank, and number over and over. It's what he was trained to do, after all, but he's not doing it to resist torture. What they're doing hurts, but it isn't torture like that. Nobody's asked him any questions at all, and he knows at least one of them speaks English. They just... cut, and cut, and cut. He should be more cuts than person, at this point, but ever since he first woke up, he can feel the itchy-pain of healing way faster than he should.

No, now he's saying it because he needs to remember. He's a soldier, a man, not a science experiment, and he needs to hold onto that no matter what they do to him.

He's James Buchanan Barnes, and he's going to get out of here.

[*]

THE WESTERN FRONT  
16 JANUARY, 1945

“Well, boys, you've made better decisions,” Peggy says, not terribly concerned with the men surrounding her.

They have knives, bayonets, one even has a length of metal in his hands, but there's only one with a gun, and she heard him run out of ammunition, even if he didn't. She's watched Steve take out more men than this when they had rifles, let alone a single empty sidearm. She may not have his shield, but she has a pistol (her Browning, technically an experimental model, but quite reliable) with a full cartridge, a pair of knives, and no Allied witnesses to carry home an account of her true abilities.

“Before we get started, does anyone wish to leave?” Peggy asks, keeping her hands at her sides. She's not going to let any of them go, of course, but it in this snow, she could easily pick off any runners after dealing with their less cowardly fellows. “No? Right, then. Get on with it.”

There's a few more seconds of them hovering and waiting for someone to make a move, while Peggy stands stock-still, then one lunges forward, knife outstretched. She knocks his arm away, her other palm coming up to crash into his jaw. Usually, that move results in a man stumbling backward. With the serum running through her veins, there's a snap as his lower jaw collides with his upper, and he flips backward entirely.

If he had been the only one to move, that may have ended the fight as the other men saw her capabilities and tried to run. However, there had been others even before she struck, and that cements their end as being messy rather than a clean bullet through somewhere vital.

A man to her side gets that clean bullet to the base of his skull – god in heaven, when did she become capable of making a shot like that during a melee? - and the next has his own knife lodged in his shoulder. She breaks a wrist to steal away a bayonet, and between that and the gun in her opposite hand, it's only a matter of seconds before every single Nazi lies bleeding into the snow.

She looks down at herself. There's a spray of blood across the front of her uniform, and one of her sleeves is ripped away entirely, but apart from that, she's untouched. Her hands are clean, and while the bayonet drips, it's easily dropped, forgotten; it's not her weapon, just something she used in the heat of the moment. _Her hands are clean_. She doesn't know how others keep their humanity, keep from ever wanting to take more life than they ever do, but for Peggy it's the sticky warmth of blood on her hands, her face, her skin. And now, thanks to the serum, she took nine lives without ever touching a drop.

One of the men groans, and she drops to a knee to give him mercy. She uses one of her own knives, the knives she left in their hidden places without being needed in the slightest.

Peggy doesn't even know herself if it's purposeful or accidental, but when she rises, his blood is on her hands.

[*]

THE WESTERN FRONT  
17 JANUARY, 1945

“Peggy!” It's Steve who raises the alarm, and she knows he's been worried by the way he doesn't correct himself to 'Agent Carter' in front of the men at camp.

“Captain Rogers,” she says, cool and collected, raising an eyebrow.

He coughs, shuffles his feet. “You... where were you?”

“I'm here now, and I assume I'll be debriefed when someone lets the General know I'm here,” she gives one of the surrounding infantrymen an arch look, and he scrambles off.

“You've got blood,” he gestures, and she shakes her head.

“It's not mine,” she says, glancing down at her uniform and not thinking about the blood she'd scrubbed off her hands with snow.

“No, you--” he waves his hands at his own cheek, clearly not wanting to touch her in front of people.

She reaches up, scrubs the pad of her thumb across her cheekbone. It comes back flaked with rust-red.

“So I do,” she says, staring down at the dried blood on her hand, “so I do.”

[*]

GREENLAND  
9 FEBRUARY, 1945

Steve Rogers flies a plane into the icy waters of Greenland.

Other things happen, but at the end of that day – of that year, of that decade – that's all that really matters.

Peggy Carter's heart goes cold as his grave, and she doesn't feel it's hyperbole at all to say she'll never love another man the way she did him.

[*]

LOCATION: UNKNOWN  
12 FEBRUARY, 1945

He is James Buchanan Barnes.

He is not the asset. He is not Hydra, not Red Room. He is a Sergeant in the United States Army.

He is... in agony.

[*]

LOCATION: UNKNOWN  
18 FEBRUARY, 1945

He is James Buchanan Barnes.

He is not the asset.

He is....

[*]

LOCATION: UNKNOWN  
1 MARCH, 1945

He is James Buchanan Barnes.

He is the asset.

One cannot exist within the other.

[*]

LOCATION: UNKNOWN  
24 MARCH, 1945

He is the asset.

He is asked who James Buchanan Barnes is. He does not know.

He flinches away from anticipated pain. It does not come.

Instead, a caress, cool cloth against fevered skin.

“Prepare yourself to see infinity....”

[*]

LOCATION: UNKNOWN  
27 MARCH, 1945

Pain.

Stretching, expanding, becoming. Searing through his veins, clamping around his heart. He screams and screams, and no punishment comes.

The pain ceases. He is released from the bed.

“Who are you?”

He raises his head. Coldness steals through him.

“I am the asset.”

[*]

THE RED ROOM  
29 MARCH, 1945

“The American has survived the process.”

“Westerners always are too dumb to know when to die.”

A shuffling of papers.

“Germany will soon fall.”

“And the Union shifts under our feet. Begin training the American, and commence the Black Widow program.”

“What of the super soldier project?”

“It is an obvious success, even if the survivor leaves something to be desired. Have Dr. Kudrin continue refinement; I want a Russian super soldier by the end of the year.”

“Yes, Director.”

[*]

LOCATION: UNKNOWN  
4 APRIL, 1945

A woman, lean and armed to the teeth, stands at the battlements of her castle. The light reflects off her dark green hair, catches the metal of her many knives and two pistols. She crosses her arms over her chest, watching the landscape as snow melts and gives way to new life.

“Germany burns, the Red Skull is dead, and Hydra stands at the brink of destruction.”

Her eyes lift to the horizon.

“Those who came before me have been foolish. What use is rebirth if the new body is weak, if the mind cannot adapt to changing times?”

She gazes out at the setting sun, mind working at a feverish pace. Her companion, short and unobtrusive, does not speak.

“We shall disappear. Sacrifice the few imbeciles who object to the Allied purges that come – and the purges will come – and the rest shall go to ground.”

“Where shall we go, Madame?” Asks her companion.

“Into the hearts of our enemies. Britain, America, France, Russia-- we shall infiltrate and recruit, gathering our strength. And when they truly think us gone and done... we shall crumble them from within, and rise from the ashes.”

“Heil Hydra,” whispers her companion.

“Heil Hydra,” Viper responds, with a vicious slash over her mouth in place of a smile.

[*]

LOCATION: UNKNOWN  
20 APRIL, 1945

Erik Lensherr doesn't move when the door to his room opens.

Men come in. They're large, muscular men, with rifles of a make he doesn't recognize. They're clean, just about calm. Nothing like the ones he usually sees.

They speak. It's not German, but it does sound familiar. When he doesn't respond, they shout behind themselves. They don't point their weapons at him, so he wonders why they're here.

A new man comes in. He's cut from the same cloth as the others, but wearing different stripes on his shoulders.

“Are you alright, son?” The new man speaks German. He kneels in front of Erik. He has kind eyes, and concern on his face. Erik only vaguely remembers these things. “Are you hurt?”

Erik doesn't speak. Everything is a test. Everything will be remembered. If he shows weakness....

“C'mon, speak to me.” The man reaches out. Erik twitches. He can feel the metal in the man's helmet, his uniform, his sidearm, the laces on his boots. He doesn't reach for it. “Son? You do speak German, don't you?”

He turns to one of the others. “We got anyone who speaks Russian? Polish?'

“I speak German,” Erik says, soft. Everything is a test. Maybe this time they want to make sure he still speaks.

“Good,” says the man. “Now, come with me, we're going to get you somewhere safe.”

Erik goes with the man. He knows when there is no choice to a thing. He will go, and he will wait, and he will pass the next test.

[*]

LONDON, ENGLAND  
7 MAY 1945; V-E DAY

“The Axis has fallen.”

A ragged cheer goes up around them at the pronouncement, and Peggy herself has to lean against a street light, closing her eyes. She can hear the men around her embracing, slapping shoulders, even crying. It should be infectious, their elation, but it doesn't touch her.

“We did it,” she whispers to Steve's ghost. “It's over, darling.”


	2. Crescendo II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This follows on directly from Crescendo I.

LONDON, ENGLAND  
7 MAY, 1945; V-E DAY

As soon as the words leave her lips, she feels Howard's arm around her shoulders. It's a tossup between hugging him and throwing him over her shoulder and into the street, so she ends up twitching in his grasp.

“It's over!” Howard crows, elated, and leans down.

She leans back, opens her mouth to stop him, but he's moving too fast, and no, thank you--

He ends up thrown over her shoulder anyway, gone and bounced and into the river. She calls for the frogmen with a smirk she doesn't bother hiding; she knows Howard won't drown, and he should know better than to try kissing an unaware woman many times stronger than him.

They fish him out, and he pouts at her for the rest of the day, more petulant than truly hurt. She's not going to laugh at him in public, but her smirk stays in place for a long time.

[*]

LOCATION: UNKNOWN  
4 JUNE 1945

“Your instruction begins,” he is told.

His eyes are sharp. His body fluid. His mind evaluates, compares, dissects. He is beaten when he speaks out of turn, so he does not. He is beaten when he strikes without being told, so he stops responding.

They begin with the art of combat. They discuss training him in spycraft, discuss teaching him Russian, but only in front of him, never with him.

He watches, and learns.

[*]

LONDON, ENGLAND  
15 JUNE 1945

The SSR assigns her to New York City.

She's alternately elated and resentful. In another life, she could have lived there. Or Steve here, and they would have visited. Either way, she could have been there.

And now, she still will be. Only without Steve.

When she steps onto American soil, she grits her teeth and smiles for the agents welcoming her. It's not their fault she's still haunted by the shadow of a man far better than any of them.

[*]

SSR HEADQUARTERS, NEW YORK CITY  
18 JUNE, 1945

The last bit of respect she gets from American agents is when she's greeted upon arrival. She's used to condescension, even when she knows her skills far exceed those of the men she's speaking with, but this is quite simply excessive. Steve must have--

She doesn't think about Steve. She bites her tongue, clenches her fist, does everything but give into the acid coating her tongue or the violence sleeping in her bones. She's worked her way past men like this before, and she can do it again.

Sometimes, though, she wonders if she should bother.

[*]

LOCATION: UNKNOWN  
20 JUNE, 1945

Viper pours over correspondence, flicking from letter to letter. Most are disappointing, simple notices that her people are alive but currently unproductive. She is patient; one does not infiltrate the world's intelligence agencies in a handful of months.

She finds the letter she was looking for, and pulls it out of the pile.

_V--_

_Have found gainful employment. Starting at the bottom, but I will work my way up. Kisses to the children._

_-H_

A smile curls her lips. An agent in Russian intelligence already, and one of her best. His mention of 'the children' – their other agents – means he anticipates being in a position to bring in others, or convert them.

She allows herself a glass of wine with dinner that night. This is, after all, an excellent start.

[*]

NEW YORK CITY  
8 JULY, 1945

Building back up contacts comes as naturally as it ever has. She's never played the spymaster, but it's reflex to create a web wherever she goes. She takes to dining at different places around the city; waitresses and cooks see a lot more than people give them credit for.

When she gets to the L&L Diner, she stops rotating her dinner destinations. It's close to the SSR headquarters, the food is acceptable, and-- there's a woman. Angie.

“Hey, there, English, what'll you have?” She smiles, genuine, cocking a hip and getting her pen ready. 

She's objectively good-looking, Peggy knows, slender and compact the way Americans prefer. Brown hair kept in a fashionable bob, conservative jewelry, and Peggy doesn't mind watching her walk away. None of that is really why she caught Peggy's eye, though. She's got a light to her, a fire inside that shines through her eyes, her movements, her words. It's what attracted her to Steve, that light, and she can no more walk away from Angie than she could from him, despite all the reasons she should.

“Oh, the usual, tonight,” Peggy smiles back, and it's only a little tight around the edges.

“Next time, I'm gonna get you to live a little,” Angie teases, and writes the order down.

Peggy watches her go, smile dropping into a frown. It feels a little like playing with fire, being here and doing this. It would be bad enough just pursuing friendship with the woman, but Peggy is quite old enough to know who she is and what she wants. Old enough to know that women rarely admit to sharing her desires.

That night, stuffed to the gills with pie that Angie coaxed her into eating, Peggy stares up at the ceiling. She hasn't checked Angie's background. She hasn't asked her last name. She hasn't even started the maze of subtle flirtations and careful questions that could perhaps lead to something physical, if she's very lucky and very cautious both. She's languishing in a middle ground where she doesn't pursue what she wants, but neither does she separate herself from the temptation. 

She could perhaps blame it on Steve's shadow, but the simple truth is that he wouldn't want this indecision for her, and she knows it. He would have wholeheartedly approved of Angie, who has a simple faith and good cheer that Steve would have appreciated, and encouraged Peggy to do whatever made her happy.

No, this is something else, and Peggy doesn't know if she wants to know what.

[*]

NEW YORK CITY  
23 JULY, 1945

“Hey, Peggy?”

Peggy looks up from her tea. Angie is beautiful as always, too much so for Peggy to look directly at her for long. “Yes, Angie?”

“You busy this weekend? Frank's getting some guys in to spruce up the kitchen, and I'll be bored outta my mind with nothing to do.” She smiles, and it's another nail in Peggy's coffin. “So, you wanna catch a movie or something? There's a new theater just a coupla blocks from here.”

What Peggy means to say is 'no, thank you, I have a mile of paperwork'. What comes out of her mouth is, “I'd love to.”

[*]

NEW YORK CITY  
27 JULY, 1945

It occurs to Peggy, when she meets Angie outside the cinema, that she's never seen the other woman out of her work uniform. Then she catches sight of her, and she doesn't think anything at all, because her mouth is dry and her heart is pounding, and – dear lord.

Angie's clothes would blend into just about any crowd in New York: soft blues and conservative cuts over a pair of no-nonsense shoes. Her blouse is buttoned up as far as any proper woman's should be, and her skirt reaches her lower calves, but somehow Peggy is imagining them both on the floor, and the body that would be revealed underneath.

“Heya, English,” Angie smiles, and Peggy wrenches her thoughts back into order.

“Hello, Angie,” Peggy smiles, as if she hadn't just had the lewdest thoughts possible about her companion for the evening. “Shall we?”

They split the bill on one big tub of popcorn, because it's cheaper and Angie insists they're “friends enough to share, don't you think?”. Peggy carries it, and Angie loops her arm through on Peggy's other side.

It's been a long time since Peggy went to see a show. There was no time during the war, and she hasn't made any time since. She had forgotten the fun of turning (most of) her mind off and enjoying a story. She still scoffs at the overdramatics, but in amusement rather than true derision.

Angie leans over occasionally and makes little asides, and while Peggy should probably be scandalized, she finds she doesn't mind. They're two of perhaps ten in the theater, and while Angie doesn't do quiet, she at least lowers her voice enough that they don't get shushed. She's funny, too, and more than once Peggy has to muffle laughter with her hand.

“Walk a girl home?” Angie asks, and Peggy's heart leaps into her throat with what that might have meant another night, from another woman.

“Of course,” Peggy smiles, resisting the urge to twist her hands together. She's not nervous because there's no cause to be. She's just not used to taking time for herself, anymore.

When they reach the doorstep to Angie's apartment, the other woman turns and gives Peggy a look. She's normally so easy to read that seeing something hidden in the corner of her smile makes Peggy nearly do a double-take.

“Come up for a cup of coffee? I've got some tea, too.”

Peggy has a hundred things to have done by tomorrow and not nearly enough time to do them in. The sun has started to set, and while Peggy hardly has anything to fear from muggers, she normally acts as though she is reluctant to be out after dark. Most women are, after all.

But there's that hidden thing on Angie's face, the promise of something in her gaze, and Peggy never was able to resist a mystery.

“Maybe just one,” Peggy hedges, compromising.

Angie smiles, and leads her inside.

The Griffith is built like a fortress, and the part of Peggy that constantly catalogs exits and escape routes is impressed. Angie wasn't joking when she said the matron took these things seriously.

Though there aren't many women around at this time of night, Angie introduces her around, giving little tidbits about them. For those they don't see, she points out their doors on the way up, and Peggy reflects that in another life, Angie would have been an excellent spymaster.

“...And that's Dottie over in 2-F,” Angie nods towards the woman's room, getting her own key out. “She's a total ditz, musta left her brain back in Iowa.”

Peggy chuckles, following Angie into the apartment.

It's simple and homey, with pictures on open surfaces and theatre posters on the walls. None of them are ones Peggy recognizes, though she assumes they're musicals, going by what she knows of Angie.

“Tea, English?”

Peggy blinks away from her perusal of the walls, smiling. “Yes, please.”

Angie puts on the kettle. Even after so many years of awful, improperly made tea, Peggy still has to cover a wince of dread at what she is about to drink. She hasn't had proper tea in longer than bears thinking about.

“So how's shakes at the phone company?” Angie asks, sitting next to Peggy on the bed while the kettle heats.

With a small, quickly fled smile, Peggy says, “oh, much the same.”

Angie nods, searching her eyes. “Your work ain't real good to you, is it?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Peggy frowns.

“You always button right up when it comes up. I got about a hundred stories about everyone I work with, but an English girl like you wouldn't tell the bad ones, right?” Angie asks, with a startling amount of insight, “so that means you probably ain't got any good ones.”

Peggy opens her mouth, then closes it. Angie has her flat-footed in the worst way, because she's right. She knows the SSR is helping people, knows it's necessary, but all her 'good' stories lately involve she and Howard discussing matters she doesn't think she'd be able to cut out and still have any story left. Those would be bittersweet besides; Steve is always present where both she and Howard are.

“So,” Angie nudges her, “what do you do when you ain't working?”

That startles a laugh out of her. “I'm a career woman, I'm afraid. This is the first time I've been out since I arrived in New York.” It's the first time she's been out since the war, but that's not something Angie needs to know.

“And before the phone company?” Angie asks, relentless.

“I was attached to an American unit in the war,” Peggy says, watching Angie carefully. People surprise you when it comes to their feelings about the war, she's found.

“Oh, you served?” Angie asks, curiosity in her tone. She reaches over, covers one of Peggy's hands with hers. “Welcome home, soldier.”

The motion brought her very close; Peggy can see flecks of gold in her eyes that she'd never noticed before. She can't quite help but look at Angie's mouth, want to know what it feels like against her own. This close, she can hear Angie breathe, can faintly hear her heartbeat, and she's surrounded by Angie's scent; not just her perfume, but the woman herself underneath it.

The kettle whistles shrilly, and Angie jumps up, walking toward the stove.

“I suppose home for you is England anyway, ain't it?” Angie asks, and it must be Peggy's imagination that she sounds the smallest bit out of breath.

“Pardon?” Peggy asks, her heart roaring in her ears.

“Well, I can't really welcome you home 'cause we ain't in England,” Angie says, and her voice is definitely normal. “But, you know, I can appreciate you serving.”

“I don't mind being appreciated,” slips out of Peggy's mouth before she can think about it. It's flirtatious without a doubt, and she means it but she didn't mean to say it out loud.

Angie flashes a smile over her shoulder, too quick for Peggy's slowed mind to read anything into or out of it. “Well, good, 'cause a gal like you should be appreciated.”

Before Peggy can reply, Angie asks, “so, you want lemon tea, or some of this stuff in chicken scratch?”

“Chicken scratch?” Peggy asks, frowning.

“Yeah,” Angie says, “I got a box in here I can't read, but I'm pretty sure it's tea.”

Peggy rises, “do you mind if I take a look?”

“Knock yourself out,” Angie invites.

The small box sits on one of Angie's shelves, painted garishly bright green and gold, and yes, that is certainly a script Peggy doesn't directly recognize.

“This may be Chinese,” she murmurs, turning it over in her hands.

“Well, it came with the apartment, and a friend of mine told me tea don't expire,” Angie tells her, “but I ain't been brave enough to make it yet.”

Peggy opens the lid and takes a deep breath. It curls into her nostrils, heady and inviting, filled with spices she doesn't recognize, but oh, it's _real tea_.

“Are you feeling brave now?” Peggy asks, not entirely sure when her eyes drifted shut.

“Only if you'll be brave with me,” Angie murmurs, and Peggy opens her eyes to see that secret thing written in Angie's gaze.

Peggy clears her throat, stepping backward and offering Angie back the box. “Then shall we find out?”

Angie smiles, and whatever it was disappears. “Sure.”

The tea is exquisite.

[*]

LONDON, ENGLAND  
8 AUGUST, 1945

Erik learns English quickly. He has to; they refuse to feed or clothe him, or let him bathe, unless he asks in English. This, too, must be a test. He learns also that he cannot speak German or the other children will come upon him when the lights go out, will beat him with soap tied into socks so that it does not leave bruises.

He does not kill them, though he could. He knows he is not allowed to kill unless told.

“Erik,” one of the older women who runs the home waves him over. He goes, because disobeying is another way he can go hungry. “Erik, the nice men have found a home for you.”

Erik has no home.

“How would you like to live on a farm?” Asks one of the men. He wears a suit and tie, looks at Erik with cold eyes that he knows all too well.

He does not know the right answer. He does not know that he is understanding the words correctly; he is learning English quickly but it is still slippery in his grasp sometimes. So he does not answer. Better to be beaten for silence than starved for insolence.

The woman and the men talk quickly, too quickly for him to understand. He thinks maybe he did understand them, because he is taken away by the men, with the blessing of the woman.

They put him in a van with other children, all of whom he knows by the hurts they've left on his body. He wonders if maybe he'll be allowed to kill them soon.

[*]

NEW YORK CITY  
12 AUGUST, 1945

Angie has coaxed Peggy out a few more times since the first. She's insistent, honest in a way that Peggy can't help but appreciate. Peggy is rather poor at showing her appreciation and she knows it, but leans towards Angie's attentions like plants toward the sun. There is only one voice, these days, that she hears without a demand in it; she even hears expectations in Howard, expecting her to live up to Steve's example, and it's exhausting.

After every outing, they go back to Angie's apartment and share more of the Chinese tea. Angie seems to have only the barest understanding of personal space, and all too often her thigh or forearm or shoulder lingers against Peggy's, touching her on the barest pretext.

Tonight, for example, they're sitting at the small table in Angie's apartment, and there's really no reason for their calves to be touching, but they are. Angie shifts, rubbing against her, and it suddenly _clicks_ with some of her earlier comments and--

“You're seducing me, aren't you?” Peggy asks, tilting her head and looking at Angie out of the corner of her eye.

Angie leans forward onto her elbows, framing her cleavage perfectly. Peggy's eyes trace down the view, then back up to Angie's face.

“Seems like it's working,” Angie murmurs.

Peggy's mouth goes dry, and her gaze flickers down to the table, then back up. “It does seem so.”

Angie licks her lips, touches the sleeve of her shirt. She throws Peggy a mischievous, very direct look, fingering the material.“You want this off?”

A jolt goes through Peggy, starting in her chest and ending between her legs. “I wouldn't complain.”

Angie leans back, fingers sliding up along the center of her blouse. She unbuttons the top button. That smile, that secretive smile, appears, only this time Peggy is certain she's in on it. The second button follows, then the third. Peggy's eyes follow every single one, right down to the very bottom. Angie draws it off one shoulder, then the other, letting it slowly drift off her body.

Peggy's eyes follow an expanse of perfect skin from her collarbone down to where the table cuts off her view. She traces Angie's arms, the curve of her neck, the swell of her breasts above floral-patterned cloth. Then up to her eyes, where dark brown is being swallowed up by the black of her pupils.

“You're gonna have to do a little better than not complaining,” Angie tells her, voice low, “to get the rest.”

Swallowing, Peggy lifts a hand to rest on the tabletop. Her skin is far too tight. “I could show you my appreciation.”

“Yeah?” Angie asks, her smile turning coy.

“Oh, I most certainly can,” Peggy promises, mouth dry.

“Come over here and show me, then.”

Peggy does.

Later, Peggy catches her breath lying on her back, fully aware that she is a complete mess. It doesn't matter, for once.

“Have you ever done this before, Pegs?” Angie asks into the quiet, propping her head up on her hand. The sheets tangle around her legs, more decoration than concealment. “With a gal, I mean?”

“Well, once or twice,” Peggy rolls to face her, a bit nettled, “I daresay I was a quick enough study.”

Angie laughs. “Sure were. I was just asking 'cause I don't really meet too many other gals who, y'know, are okay with this like you.”

“I like to think there aren't any other women like me,” Peggy says dryly, and they laugh. “I imagine so, but for the sake of posterity I'll ask: have _you_ done this before?”

“Some,” Angie shrugs. “Lots of gals out there think it don't count, or want something fun without a fella involved.”

“Lots?” Peggy asks, struggling to keep her voice level as her heart twists.

Angie studies her face, pursing her lips. “Yeah. It was fun. And this is fun, and I like you.”

Peggy drops her eyes to the sheets. She reaches a hand up to rest on Angie's stomach. It's warm, her skin soft, and Peggy tries not to see the trails of others' hands where her own have been.

“I am a jealous woman, Angie,” Peggy says softly, raising her eyes to meet Angie's, “and it would be best not to start, if that is how it would end.”

Angie reaches down, covers Peggy's hand with her own. “I'm not making any promises about you and me, but I'll let you know if I start thinking about me and someone else.”

“Well,” Peggy says, and tells herself it's enough, “so long as you warn me before you seduce other women into your den....”

Angie laughs again, leaning forward to press her lips to Peggy's. “That ain't how it works, English. I don't bring 'em home.”

Raising an eyebrow, Peggy pointedly looks around the room.

“Like I said,” Angie tells her, with a kiss that has more purpose to it, “I like you.”

[*]

LOCATION: UNKNOWN  
19 AUGUST, 1945

They speak only Russian to him, now. Using English for anything gets him beaten, and he is forced to repeat endless lines of a language that feels too-harsh in his mouth.

He is not rewarded for success, only punished for failure. He measures his successes in the lessened frequency of beatings, in grim satisfaction on the men's faces around him.

They put a knife in his hands, and this he knows, this he can do. He is instructed to attack one of his instructors with it, and he kills the man because he is not holding back, because they do not know what the asset is capable of.

He expects a beating, but his trainers laugh, removing the body. He bares his teeth in return, and the room goes silent.

“Is he supposed to smile?”

“No, he is not.”

The asset goes into the chair, and screams, and screams, and screams.

[*]

SSR OFFICE, NEW YORK CITY  
27 SEPTEMBER, 1945

“I hate working here, but I don't know what I would do without it, or it without me.”

The words aren't supposed to come out. She's been thinking them for an age, but holding them in, burying them. There's no one who she can say them to that isn't Howard, and now that she has, she knows he'll say:

“Why, Pegs?”

“Which, Howard?” Peggy laughs, but it's dry, mirthless. “Why do I hate it?”

He turns to look square at her. He's wearing gloves like the scientists do, but his own clothes as per usual. Stubborn man.

“No, I think I know why you hate it,” Howard says, “but why don't you know what you'd do without it? You're a smart lady.”

Another flat laugh. “I have a very particular skill set. I'm hardly suited for work as someone's amanuensis.”

“A-man-you-what?”

“A scribe.”

“You'd be a good one, but you're right, I don't think it's for you,” Howard searches her face. “And that's the problem, ain't it? They got you as an a-man-you-whatsit and that ain't what you should be doing.”

Peggy looks down at the table. “It's hardly what I envisioned when I joined the SSR.”

Howard allows her the silence for a few seconds, then shrugs, going back to whatever complex mechanical toy he's developing (she knows exactly what it is supposed to be, but it wouldn't do to admit she knows, not when she only understands because she's been around him too often). “Why not go back to MI6?”

She doesn't answer. He knows why.

“You know Steve would want you to be happy, Pegs.”

Peggy shifts, braces her hip against the countertop, drags the focus away from Steve, because all they ever seem to do is dig that hole. “What about you, Howard? Are you happy?”

Howard snorts. “Fuss over me later; we're talkin' about you right now. So, you could go back to England and be miserable, or you can stay here and be miserable.” He stops, staring off into that middle distance the way he does when something brilliant and terrible strikes him. “Hey, when was the SSR founded?”

“Just before the war started in earnest,” Peggy says automatically, not sure if she should be eyeing him suspiciously or encouraging him.

“And all the Allies gave up a few agents and scientists, to work together against the Axis, and look into deep science, right?” It's not a question. “And since the SSR had all the people who were good with the weird stuff, after the war, we ended up dealing with all that, basically the cops of the weird stuff...”

“Howard, do get to the point,” Peggy says.

He puts down the tool in his hand, looking square at her. “I think we should make a new agency. Like the SSR, but better.”

He is certifiably insane.

“You are certifiably insane, Howard,” Peggy informs him. “How, exactly, would we do that? An Englishwoman and a barely-trusted philanthropist-scientist?”

“It's only here you don't get any respect,” Howard points out, a moment of sanity in his otherwise mad plan, “I saw the way they treated you overseas, and MI6 wouldn't have recommended you for the SSR if you hadn't been somebody.”

They might have recommended her to get rid of her for all he knows, but as it happens, he's right. She wasn't a terribly high-ranking agent, but she was known to and respected by the appropriate people.

“And how, precisely, does one found a spy and deep-science agency?” Peggy asks archly, “even if we had the pull – which we do not – we would need manpower, funding--”

“Do I look like I'm short on money?” Howard asks, and yes, he has a point there.

Peggy falls silent. The last time she argued with Howard about an impossible task, she lost, and she would not like to be rushed into this one.

“Let me think on it, Howard,” she says, not knowing if she likes or dislikes where her thoughts have begun heading.

He picks the tool back up, but there's smugness in his motions. “Yeah, Pegs, you do that.”

[*]

THE RED ROOM  
8 OCTOBER, 1945

“Are we on track for a Russian super soldier by the end of the year?”

A cleared throat, averted eyes. “Not... quite.”

“Not quite.”

Fidgeting, a bead of sweat rolling down skin. “We've been doing more human trials, but... every single one has died in transition.”

“All of them.”

Silence.

“All of them have died.”

More silence.

“One half-dead, scrawny American survives the process, but our very best die over and over.”

Attempts to speak, each ending before it really starts.

“Why?”

“We don't know, sir. We've tried men, women, different ages, different ethnicities. Next comes foreign nationals--”

“No. No more Americans, no Germans, no _Chinese_. Make it work for Russians.”

Nervous swallowing. “I don't think we can do that before the end of the year, sir.”

“Soon, Ivan. Soon. Now, what of the Black Widow program?”

A relieved sigh, wiping at the brow. “We've recruited the first class. We'll retrieve another once we get some preliminary results.”

“Good. Get me those Russian super soldiers, Ivan. If the subjects continue to die, you may have to test the formula on yourself.”

“Yes-yes, sir.”

[*]

NEW YORK CITY  
12 OCTOBER, 1945

“I think I may be going into business with a colleague of mine,” Peggy says, a cup of the Chinese tea in hand.

Angie smiles, immediately giving Peggy all of her attention. “That's great, English! I didn't think you had that kinda cash, though.”

Peggy laughs. “I don't, but funding is not something my colleague lacks. My job is to provide the connections and personnel that cannot simply be bought.”

“Another phone company?” Angie asks, sitting across from her.

“Closer to taking over the current one,” Peggy says, ignoring the twinge in her belly that comes from lying to Angie. “It's poorly managed, and he's confident I can convince those in charge of such things that it would be better-run with our guidance.”

“'Course it would be,” Angie says with utter confidence, and Peggy is going to expire from the sheer faith put into her lately.

Peggy manages a smile, even from underneath that weight. “I certainly hope so.”

[*]

SSR OFFICE, NEW YORK CITY  
21 OCTOBER, 1945

Despite her words to Angie, Peggy doesn't honestly intend to found another agency with Howard, or at least she doesn't think she does. Then she finds herself critiquing procedures and filing systems and thinking to herself, ' _not on my watch,_ ', and has to forcibly stop from continuing along that train of thought. It's Howard being a maniac again, nothing new about that.

Then she's relegated to lunch orders during a meeting about a coded message. Peggy is only mildly resentful of the other agents when they sideline her during field operations, but codebreaking is not only something she is demonstrably good at – she has recommendations from more officers than her supervisor knows by name – it's performed in an office, away from whatever ridiculous dangers men think women bring upon themselves in the field.

She can't help but think that in her agency – or Howard's, if they need to have him as the figurehead, and they both know it would be Peggy's agency, not his – there would be no such nonsense. There would be more than three women in the entire agency, and they would be assigned based on their skills, not their sex. _Her_ agency would be better, with a greater scope and stricter standards.

Damn Howard anyway.

[*]

NEW YORK CITY  
23 OCTOBER, 1945

Peggy does not make a habit of calling Howard at home, but neither does she hesitate when her mind is made up.

“Stark residence,” answers an English voice, and Peggy blinks to herself before responding.

“Yes, hello, this is Peggy Carter for Howard,” she says, expecting resistance. With Howard's habits, she can only imagine there are many, many women who call for Howard.

“Oh, Miss Carter,” says the man on the other line, “yes, he's mentioned you. Might I assume this is business-related? If personal, I might recommend you call back another time.”

“It's business,” Peggy says firmly, because she doesn't much care what Howard does in his spare time, but his many, many women can do without him for an hour or two.

“I will consult with him, then. One moment.”

It's the better part of a minute before the receiver picks up again.

“Pegs?” He sounds hungover, and Peggy isn't entirely sure if that's better or worse than if she caught him with a woman.

“Do you remember that business proposition you had for me, last month?” Peggy straightens her spine. “If you're still interested, I suggest you begin your preparations.”

Howard's laughter rings through the line, followed closely by a groan of pain.

“After you recover from your debauchery,” Peggy comments dryly.

[*]

NEW YORK CITY  
14 DECEMBER, 1945

A nondescript man pens a letter in flowing, ornate writing.

_V-_

_Progress is slow but steady. Think I will have a job soon._

_-O_

He smooths his hand over the side of the paper, allowing a smile to rise to his lips.

“Hail Hydra.”

[*]

STARK INDUSTRIES CHRISTMAS GALA  
20 DECEMBER, 1945

It's a little strange, Howard can admit, seeing Peggy out of uniform. He caught her in fatigues more than once during the war – not that she was supposed to be in them, but Peggy always does what needs to be done, not what other people want her to do – and all dolled up a few times, but lately it's just been her SSR threads. She cleans up uncomfortably nice, if he's being honest, in a yellowish color he doesn't know the name for, her dress shining like it's got a hundred little jewels on it.

“Howard,” she greets him. 

“Didn't think you'd show,” Howard says, surveying the gala.

There's a faint grimace on her face when he turns to her.

“For our purposes, there's no better place for me to be,” she says, wiping off the grimace in favor of a vaguely flirty smile in a Congressman's direction. “After all, not everyone can be persuaded by your... assets.”

They lose a few minutes to an overweight businessman who only barely scraped an invitation to the gala. His eyes stay firmly on Peggy's chest, and Howard makes a mental note to never invite him again. It's not like he's got anything to say about a man appreciating a woman, but there's a difference between appreciating and staring so hard you can't talk to the host.

“Thank you for not breaking his nose,” Howard says, “all that blood is hell on the carpet.”

“I don't make a show of myself when I don't have to,” Peggy says, “far easier to ruin his professional reputation without anyone the wiser.”

“You hold one hell of a grudge,” Howard comments, stuck between impressed and a little put off.

“So I'm told.” Peggy scans the room, then turns back to Howard. “What progress on your end?”

Howard straightens his suit. “I already got the money I figure we'll need. I'm working on getting favors, making contacts.”

“Howard,” Peggy smirks, “are you _conniving_ your way into starting our agency?”

He shakes his head, smirking. “Pegs, you know how silver my tongue is.”

“Oh, yes, Howard, your tongue's reputation is legendary,” Peggy comments dryly, “and you'll get to put it to good use for once.”

“It's always a good use, Peggy.”

She rolls her eyes.

Somehow they make it through the night without her socking anyone, or him going home with anyone. Neither of them are particularly happy about it, but they keep the peace.

(It's probably a good sign for them running an agency together, but Howard's not real gracious about it; he's got needs.)


	3. Crescendo III

NEW YORK CITY  
21 DECEMBER, 1945

Howard wakes the day after the gala with a clear head, an empty bed, and the resolution to never do this Peggy's way ever again.

[*]

LONDON, ENGLAND  
10 JANUARY, 1946

“Stop fidgeting,” Peggy commands. When Howard continues to fuss at his suit, she raises an eyebrow, and he subsides with a sigh.

“This is why we're doing this,” Howard grouses, “so you can go do all the boring schmoozing without an escort. Don't see why I have to go to a U.N. meeting, not when you're already going.”

Peggy snorts, more fond than exasperated. “I imagine I'll have to have a man with me regardless, but it shan't have to be you. I've no earthly idea what they think I'll get up to on my own; you're far more likely to cause trouble.”

Howard smirks, and she knows he's already plotting.

“No scandals,” she says firmly, because trying to stop Howard from getting up to anything at all is a losing proposition.

“Nothing'll make the papers,” he says, which is likely the best she's going to get from him.

“It had best not,” Peggy says, in a vaguely threatening tone.

They separate to mingle, and Peggy finds herself speaking to a Frenchman who, as per usual for the French, looks down his nose at her.

“And who are you?” He asks, pointedly. She's the only woman in the room, and she's gotten many looks ranging from polite curiosity to disgusted contempt, but he is the first to ask.

“Agent Carter, Strategic Scientific Reserve,” she says, keeping her tongue in check.

If she had expected her title, politeness, or employer to gain her any respect with him, she would have been greatly disappointed. If anything, his expression becomes even less welcoming.

“And what, exactly, does the SSR have to do with the UN?”

“Everything,” Peggy says coolly, “as we remain a multinational agency dedicated to world peace, we are naturally very interested in other world peacekeepers.”

“Oh, yes,” he sneers, “you have one accomplishment, and that grants you entrance to the community. I forgot how lax the English and Americans are in the admittance standards.”

Peggy has a brief moment where she acknowledges that the diplomatic thing to do would be to make her excuses and leave him to simmer in his self-righteousness. That's not what she's going to do, but it would almost certainly be wiser.

“I apologize,” she says, not bothering to make her tone match her words, “I assumed that if you were attending this event, you were of sufficient clearance for us to have a frank conversation. However, if you're only aware of one of the SSR's accomplishments, I can see I was incorrect.”

His face turns stark red, and his fists ball up at his sides. Peggy's world turns clear and sharp, and she hopes – she very much hopes – that he will attempt to strike her. There are more eyes on them than anyone will ever admit, and if he initiates, she can black his eye and no one will say a word--

“Agent Carter,” interrupts a voice, smooth and unfamiliar, “I was hoping for a moment of your time! Mr. Stark was just telling me about some of the fascinating ideas you have for new approaches to intelligence....”

She turns to the new arrival – a man with soft features and a lie written in his genial smile – and tilts her head, trying not to let her tension show in her expression.

“Oh, am I interrupting?” He asks, with what Peggy recognizes as a middle-class English accent, “only, I very much doubt I'll have another opportunity to catch her, we're both very busy...”

He extends his arm, and Peggy lays a hand on it, giving the Frenchman her best edged smile. They leave him behind, still red-faced and shaking.

“If you were looking to utterly ruin him, it was a masterful performance,” the man says, when they're an acceptable distance away, “but one perhaps best left until after the proceedings?”

She disengages smoothly, raising an eyebrow, and he chuckles. “Alistair Lancaster, British intelligence.”

“MI6?” Peggy asks, concealing her surprise at a new player she's not heard of.

“Did I say that?” He asks mildly, tilting his head. “I was just speaking with your partner, and he's very good for a civilian, but easily led when he truly cares about the conversation.”

Peggy carefully does not wince. She and Howard will be having words, and those words will end in him guarding his tongue more carefully.

“I've been a free agent, essentially,” Lancaster says, sharp eyes taking her in, “but I might be persuaded otherwise.”

“Might you?” Peggy asks, “and what is it that might persuade you?”

“As I understand it, the SSR deals in the unusual,” he says, “and we have a rather unusual man we'd like brought back to us.”

Peggy doesn't allow her eyes to narrow. “What manner of man?”

“They've taken to calling themselves _homo superior,_ "Lancaster tells her, and though his tone is almost casual, she can spot a muscle near his eye that twitches minutely, “this one in particular is a gross exaggeration of a man. The details are unsuited to civilized conversation, but I'll have them sent over. If you're interested?”

“I'll review the file and let you know,” Peggy offers. Something about this feels off, but she can't pin what, exactly. Lancaster could be nervous for any number of reasons, including his professional credibility for letting someone escape his grasp, and yet....

“Agent Carter,” murmurs a familiar voice.

Peggy turns to see Jacques Dernier, immaculately presented in a tailored suit. She steps forward to shake his hand with a smile. “Mr. Denier.” Her French isn't adequate to converse entirely in it, nor is his English, so they used to manage in the pidgin language the Howling Commandos fell into when speaking with him, English with as much French as the speaker can remember at the moment.

(Peggy learned a lot of swearing, and she's reasonably confident in her ability to make herself understood on a military level, but the simpler, every day French was never touched upon in those days. God help her if she ever has to ask after a toilet while in Paris.)

“A reminder why I don't hate all of the French,” she says, as he squeezes her hand affectionately.

“Just most,” he replies with a curl of the lips, turning to Lancaster.

“Alistair Lancaster, this is Jacques Dernier,” she introduces one to the other, “Mr. Denier, Alistair is an independent operator in an area Howard is expanding in.”

Lancaster smiles, playing the game. “Agent Carter has been graciously smoothing the way. Are you the Mr. Denier I've heard so much of, formerly of the Howling Commandos?”

Dernier nods without looking to Peggy for translation, evidently sure enough of his understanding to confirm it. “Formerly, formerly. We are at peace, now.”

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Lancaster says agreeably. “Agent Carter, I'll have the papers sent by courier. Mr. Denier, a pleasure to meet you.”

The Englishman takes his leave, and Dernier drops the smile, turning to the pidgin language now that they're essentially alone. “Who was that popinjay?”

Peggy chuckles. “A so-called independent intelligence agent, who wanted a very large favor without proving himself worth it.”

Dernier snorts. “Good thing I have you as a reminder why I don't hate all of the English.”

They catch up, Peggy glossing over the exact details of what she's been up to since the war. Dernier's quirked eyebrow says he catches it, but he doesn't comment. He has, to no surprise, been involved in the French rebuilding efforts, concentrating on Marsailles.

“What did you do, before the war?” Peggy asks, realizing she doesn't know.

“I was a baker,” Dernier says, smiling at her moment of surprise. “It surprises many, to learn how many baking ingredients can be used for explosives.”

“From ecclairs to explosives,” Peggy quips, and they laugh. Someone near the front of the room calls for their attention, and Peggy takes Dernier's outstretched arm. “Escort a lady to her seat?”

“With pleasure,” he assures her.

[*]

STARK MANSION, NEW YORK CITY  
17 JANUARY, 1946

“So,” Howard asks, “what have we got?”

Peggy frowns, spreading the files from Lancaster over the desk in front of her. “They speak of Mortimer in unsettling terms: as if they own rather than employ him. As if he is a thing rather than a man.”

“Could be some kinda experiment,” Howard comments, leaning down to touch one of the photographs.

_'Like you and Steve,'_ he doesn't say. 

_'There, but for the grace of God, goes Peggy Carter,'_ Peggy thinks.

“A rather distasteful experiment if so,” Peggy says, wrinkling her nose.

The photos depict, much as Lancaster said, a man who once was, but is no longer. The photographs show a man with three fingers, a prehensile tongue, and the ability to make great leaps as if he truly were the toad he has taken the name of.

“You never know,” Howard says, “everyone's trying to have their own Project Rebirth.”

Peggy may not be any of the many scientific professions who would have a respectable opinion on such a thing, but she cannot imagine the incompetence it would take to end up with a man such as this if they were trying to duplicate Project Rebirth. The files say the man has _green skin_ , for Heaven's sake.

“I'll put out inquiries, but honestly, Howard, I don't understand how a man such as this could hide for any amount of time,” Peggy says, frowning. “Any one of these changes would make it difficult, but a green man with deformed hands? How has he managed to provide for himself without Alistair's network picking him up?”

“Maybe he's not as good as he think he is,” Howard comments, making a face.

“Better than you,” Peggy says, blunting her tongue so as not to sound combative, “managed to get our venture right out of you, and I'd only left you a moment.”

Howard gives her a sour look. “Paid off, didn't it?”

“That remains to be seen,” Peggy says. “I'll be looking into both Lancaster and Toynbee.”

“And what do you want me to do?” Howard asks, giving her a look that says he doesn't believe he's off the hook just yet.

“Whatever it is you did before I appeared to nursemaid you through life,” Peggy comments dryly, and sweeps the photographs back into their folder.

Howard mutters something uncomplimentary about her, but it's low enough that she can pretend she didn't hear it.

[*]

THE RED ROOM  
19 JANUARY, 1946

“Ivan, Ivan.” A genial tone, hand clasped on a back. “You know why you are here?”

“N-No, sir.” Trembling.

“You are here because you have failed. You have failed to produce any results in over a year. Your program has failed, and you cannot even tell me why. Do you deny this?”

“No, but you said I had more time! You said so long as I did it soon--”

“Soon has passed, Ivan.”

Hyperventilation. 

“This is Boris. Boris has some ideas I find intriguing, Ivan, ideas he will be testing on you.”

The man called Boris bares his teeth.

“Be a good comrade and try not to scream too loudly.”

Ivan does, in fact, scream _very_ loudly.

[*]

STARK MANSION  
8 FEBRUARY, 1946

Peggy doesn't call before appearing on Howard's doorstep. Jarvis doesn't greet her at the door. Howard opens the door only seconds after she knocks, lets her in without a word.

They move to his sitting room. Howard drinks. Peggy reads much the same way she slept the night before: shallowly, in bursts, often staring at the walls. The light falls lower and lower on the walls until Peggy has to force herself up and toward some semblance of food; ever since the serum – the _serum_ – she eats a ludicrous amount, and well. She can't not take care of herself just because of the date.

Howard offers, without words, to drive her back into the city proper. Peggy inclines her head, gets in the car.

He pulls up to a restaurant, and tugs on the playboy millionaire mask. It fits him badly tonight, but Peggy knows the staff here will hardly know the difference. She puts on a mask of her own, just enough that no one is going to comment on how Howard Stark's 'date' seemed unhappy to be there. Personally, she could not possibly care less, but that would warrant investigation by someone, and she would just as soon keep her name divorced from his for as long as possible.

Somehow Howard persuades them to set their table up so it's almost a buffet, and they can take servings from a dish instead of having personal, separate meals. She appreciates it more than she can say.

Alcohol appears at the table without either of them ordering it. Most days, Peggy would make her disapproval known to Howard at the amount he's taken in. Today, she merely wishes she could drink with him and have it be anything other than a fantasy of escapism.

Howard stares down at the glass in his hands for almost a full minute. Peggy's debating if she wants to interrupt his thousand-yard stare, when he looks up. “To absent friends,” he says.

Peggy firms her jaw. “To absent friends.”

They toast, and the day feels just barely better than it would have if she'd spent it at home by herself, brooding about Steve.

(God, Steve.)

[*]

NEW YORK CITY  
12 FEBRUARY, 1946

Peggy's contacts have no idea who Alistair Lancaster is, or why he'd be hunting Mortimer Toynbee. The latter has a moderate paper trail that proves he existed once as a perfectly normal man – boy, actually, the records stop at the age of fifteen – but it's been two years since then and nothing.

The UN conference has no record of a man by the name of Alistair Lancaster, which is irritating no matter how she looks at it. Either he lied to her about his name, or he lied to the UN about it, and neither bodes particularly well. Concealing your personal information is one thing, but he either didn't know Peggy would be able to check with the UN about him, or he thought it wouldn't throw up a red flag for her.

“Sloppy,” Peggy says aloud, frowning.

“What's sloppy, Pegs?” Angie asks, coming out of Peggy's bathroom with a towel in her hand and nothing on her body. She's patting her hair dry, so casual about her nudity it's almost like she's wearing the nonchalance itself.

Angie leans down for a kiss, and something in Peggy eases at the contact. She rests a hand on Angie's arm, and lets her mind go blank for a few seconds.

When Angie pulls back, she has an expectant look on, and Peggy blinks a few times to clear her head, recapture her train of thought. “Someone at work.” She gathers the letters, slips them into her desk.

“Not up to your standards?” Angie teases.

“Well,” Peggy murmurs, allowing herself a small smile, “not everyone can utterly destroy them.”

Angie laughs and drops into Peggy's lap, kissing her temple. “Think you're a ladykiller, huh?”

“There's a lady in particular who seems to appreciate my charms,” Peggy says, faux-haughty.

“If it's only one, you ain't half as smooth as you think.” Angie strokes the side of her face, affectionate.

_'Not everyone can be you,'_ Peggy thinks, swallowing back the harsh pang of jealousy.

[*]

STARK MANSION  
15 FEBRUARY, 1946

Peggy arrives to a thoroughly hungover Howard, one with a large red mark coming out of his collar. She sighs, and Jarvis lingers in the background being quietly disapproving. 

“Really, Howard?” Peggy asks, though in truth she's more resigned than surprised. “Must you?”

Howard winces, but otherwise doesn't seem terribly repentant. “You shoulda seen the girl. Even you would have looked twice.”

Peggy scoffs. “Don't pretend to know my tastes.”

There's a pause in which Howard stares and Jarvis continues pretending he's furniture. Then Howard visibly decides it's not worth thinking about with his hangover, and drops into a chair.

“I've been investigating Lancaster,” Peggy says, taking a seat across from him with far more grace than Howard displayed, “and he is a very sloppy manner of spy.”

“Do tell,” Howard says, forehead resting against the heel of one hand.

“Alistair Lancaster does not exist,” Peggy tells him, “there is no record anywhere of the man, including the UN records of attendance for the summit. The address he has given me to send correspondence is an empty warehouse. Immensely shoddy work.”

“Ain't not existing a good thing for a spy?” Howard asks.

“He wants to work for us,” Peggy says, “but he's either currently unattached to any existing agency or won't admit to it, and the warehouse lying empty is an inadvisable idea. Were it an empty apartment, or even a legitimate business, that would be far better spycraft. An empty warehouse means anyone tracking his mail will have very little difficulty finding out who is picking it up, and where they are taking it.”

“Huh,” Howard says, “so, what, we gonna drop him? 'Cause I dunno about you, but I don't make a habit of hiring people who can't do their job.”

“No,” Peggy says, “we're going to find out who's behind him. I'm going to attempt to draw him out, and see where we go from there.”

Howard waves a hand. “All your cloak and dagger stuff makes my head hurt.”

“No, I daresay that's the whiskey,” Peggy says in return.

[*]

_Mr. Lancaster--_

_I do not play games. If you continue to withhold information, I will assume you are not serious, either in your offer or in your ability to uphold your end of it._

_-Margaret Carter_

[*]

MEANWHILE IN CANADA  
3 MARCH, 1946

The people here speak strangely. It is like learning his first English all over again; he hears drawls instead of sharpness, and doesn't understand.

They don't like it when he doesn't understand, but no one starves him. Beats him, yes, but this he is used to. He would rather hurt than go hungry.

It is easy to do as they say. He is small, so they have him gather eggs, milk cows, feed the animals. Older boys work the fields, girls clean the house and do the washing. At night, he is fed, and sleeps in the barn with other children.

No one has asked him about his gift. No one has ordered him to kill. He waits, knowing they are coming.

He doesn't know when the next test will come, but he will be ready.

[*]

LOCATION: UNKNOWN  
9 MARCH, 1946

_V-_

_Have taken over my predecessor's project, am very excited. How are the children? Unlikely to be able to see them this year, apologize for me. Project only had one success before me, supervisor very invested in my success. Will write again when possible._

_Best,_

_-B_

[*]

STARK MANSION  
12 MARCH, 1946

_Miss Carter,_

_You are right, of course. A little game on my part to ascertain if you were worthy of being my employer._

_I am a bounty hunter, tasked with retrieving Mortimer Toynbee. There is a group on this side of the pond interested in his live capture, and they are willing to pay very handsomely for it. Of course, I could find him myself, but instead I decided to make it my asking price. Deliver him to me, and you shall have a bounty hunter of some repute in your employ._

_Sincerely,  
Benjamin Poindexter_

“A bounty hunter,” Peggy says, her voice dripping contempt. “A _bounty hunter_ thought he could out-play me.”

Howard, wisely, stays silent.

“Naturally, I'm going to have him investigated,” Peggy says, trying and failing not to sound as though she's seething, “and see if I can dig deeper into Toynbee. Everything Poindexter said as Lancaster is now suspect.”

Howard squints a little. “Not seein' what you want me to do, Peggy.”

“How are your connections progressing?” Peggy says, sharp. “I've reached out, but I don't quite have your knack for relating to the older _gentlemen_.” She purses her lips. “Not as an equal, anyway.”

“It's going,” Howard says, dropping into a chair. “Equal or not, they're still full of themselves. I'm tryin' not to bribe most of them, misses the point.”

Peggy pulls pen and paper out of the desk, smoothing them out onto the wood. “I believe my international contacts are being swayed. It's difficult when I cannot say aloud what I want from them, and loyalty comes slowly if at all. Carry on.”

“You realize,” Howard smirks, “you're asking me to go to more parties. Drink more booze, talk to more--”

“--men twice your age? Yes, that is exactly what I'm asking.” Peggy interrupts archly. “If you find a women who could help us fund our own international spy agency, by all means, seduce her as thoroughly as you please. Unfortunately, such women are few and far between, and their husbands often take exception to being cuckolded.

”I dunno,” Howard hasn't lost the smirk, “some of them are into that.”

Peggy gives him a flat look, pen poised above the paper. “Have a care how unnecessarily lewd you are right now, Howard. I have quite a few objects at my disposal to make it unpleasant for you.”

“It's never inappropriate--”

Peggy flicks an extra pen at Howard, catching him across the bridge of the nose. It's hardly hard enough to do any permanent or even long-lasting damage, but the pen hits with more than enough force to make him hiss and rear back.

He glares, but neither leaves nor says anything else, so she finishes her letters in peace, bids Jarvis – in and out of the room, hovering quietly the way only an English butler can – farewell, and takes her leave.

[*]

LENINGRAD, RUSSIA  
8 APRIL, 1946

Natalia Alianova Romanova is six years old when the men in uniforms come to speak to her parents.

She is not meant to know what they speak of – her father tells her to go outside – but she curls herself around the edge of the door, looking through a crack and listening.

“Your daughter will serve mother Russia,” says the larger man. He carries a gun at his side unlike any she has ever seen.

Her parents look at one another.

“Natalia is so young, yet--”

The man interrupts her mother. “The better for her to learn. You are young still. You will have another.”

Tears begin to fall down her mother's cheeks.

“If that is what is best.”

Smiles from both the larger and smaller man. They look like the smiles of hungry dogs.

“Of course.”

Natalia scoots away from the door when the men approach it. She pretends she had been watching a beetle. She stares at it so intently that she only notices the men when they're standing directly next to her.

“Natalia,” says the larger man, “you are to come with us.”

She looks up at him, then over to her front door.

“Your parents have given you to us, now. We're going to train you for the ballet.”

Natalia stands, and goes with the men.

[*]

LOCATION: UNKNOWN  
12 APRIL, 1946

There are many other girls here. They don't peek and stare at Natalia's red red hair like the girls from home. Many of them have red hair too.

She is shown her bed, the chest in which she is to keep her clothes, and told she will be waking up very early tomorrow. Then she is left in the room with the other girls.

One of them approaches. She is taller than the others, with a hard face and dark eyes.

“I am Diana,” she says. “I'm in charge.”

Natasha squints. “You?”

“Me,” Diana says, glaring.

“I thought--”

Diana punches her, hard. Natasha cries out, falls to the ground. Diana stands over her, glaring down.

“ _I'm_ in charge,” hisses Diana.

Natasha swallows, looking up. She feels tears sting the corners of her eyes. She doesn't say anything, and Diana leaves.

No one comes for her. Her parents have always come before, when she cries. She doesn't do it often – she's tough – but when she has, someone has always come to check on her. Now no one does. A few other girls come in, and Natasha scrubs at her face.

It's a lesson hard-learned, but she keeps it with her: she is the only one she can depend on.

[*]

NEW YORK CITY  
14 APRIL, 1946

When Peggy hears back from the last of her contacts, she has a picture she can't say she's fond of. Where Alistair Lancaster was nonexistent, Benjamin Poindexter is known to those who have use of such persons. He has a reputation for getting the job done, though occasionally with more collateral damage than the original contract accounted for.

There are, in fact, two problems with Benjamin Poindexter.

First, he is American. He has no connection to English intelligence other than his outlandish claim at the UN summit; her contacts do not know how he ended up in England, though that's hardly an uncommon thing, for Americans to end up places they aren't supposed to be. International passenger rosters are easily falsified, or their keepers simply lied to. It isn't that Peggy has a problem with Americans, it's more that she simply has no need of an American bounty hunter in her international bureau. The SSR has plenty of them, all of far less questionable loyalty.

The second is that he has a record. There's a warrant out for him in three U.S. states, two under his name, one under an alias. Four counts of manslaughter, ten of kidnapping. She couldn't say for absolute certainty how a man gets ten counts of kidnapping without being caught, but she assumes it has something to do with how he likes to go after men with no known crimes.

In the end, she writes him another letter.

_Mr. Poindexter,_

_As it stands, I remain unconvinced of your abilities. It would be an unconscionable waste of resource to pursue an English citizen to return to an unknown, unnamed organization, for a man who only duplicates a skill set we already have._

_With regret,  
Margaret Carter_

[*]

LOCATION: UNKNOWN  
2 MAY, 1946

Three girls have already disappeared.

Their teachers make them keep going and going, until at least half of them have collapsed and cannot get back up. Natalia isn't always the last one standing, but she is never the first to fall. She is strong.

Diana, Diana is the last one to fall from anything. They run and run and run, and Diana is at the front of the group. They do endless forms – ballet forms, they're told – and Diana is always the closest to perfect.

The other girls hate her, but Natalia just watches her. So long as the eyes are on Diana's strength, Natalia's weakness is ignored. So long as the eyes are on someone else falling with tears in their eyes, Natalia can take a breath.

Diana preens under the attention, but Natasha knows the look of hungry dogs, has seen it on the men who came to take her from her parents. She knows that look, has learned that those who have it will take everything you have, until they have what you want.

She will remain strong, but the limelight is dangerous, and she does not want it.

[*]

STARK MANSION  
17 MAY, 1946

“You heard back from Poindexter?” Howard asks, sprawled across one of his couches.

Peggy's curled up in 'her' chair writing endless letters and occasionally eating one of Jarvis' excellent sandwiches. She's not sure when she claimed this chair for her own and expected it to remain unmolested, but clearly she has been here too often.

“No,” she says, crossing a T, “and I don't expect I shall.”

“He gonna out us, y'think?” Howard throws an arm over his eyes, and Peggy idly wonders if he'd still be asleep if she weren't here.

She snorts in return. “What is he going to say? Howard Stark is trying to hire intelligence officers? Clearly you were just trying to prevent corporate espionage, and as a friend, I was vetting your potential employee. A man with a record such as that has no leverage against us.”

“Good,” Howard says, then launches himself upward, staring at the wall.

“Howard?” Peggy asks, stilling.

“I gotta...” he trails off, pushing off of the couch and heading toward the basement. She knows that look. He's going to lock himself in his lab, working on an idea until it either comes together or falls apart explosively. Part of why she's never said a word about Jarvis is because when he has those phases, Howard will forget to eat save what he is forced to, and sleep only when he collapses. As juvenile as it sounds, Howard truly needs a minder when he's in an inventing sort of mood.

“Need you anything else, Agent Carter?” Jarvis asks solicitously. “I estimate I've a few hours before Mr. Stark neglects some fundamental need and I must force him to attend to it.”

“No, thank you,” Peggy says. She gathers her things, takes her leave, and makes a mental note not to expect Howard to be of any use for a while. 

[*]

MEANWHILE IN CANADA  
19 JUNE, 1946

There is a girl who looks at him. The other children ignore him except when he is in their way, but she looks. She is small and brown, browner than even the boys who work in the sun all day, and she doesn't look away when he catches her staring.

“What's your name?” She asks, when he finishes his chores and sits out back of the barn.

He knows these words, but can't remember the last time someone asked him. He does not think she is part of the test. They have never used children before, and no one is telling him to kill her.

“Erik,” he says. His voice is rough with German.

“I'm Raven,” she says, and sits next to him.

She doesn't speak again, and he finds he does not mind her.


End file.
